She glanced around the cavernous entry hall. She was here, the door was unlocked and the place appeared deserted—might as well have a look around. Zacharias had called her to Atlanta less than two weeks ago. No one could prove she hadn’t been in his house previously if her prints were found.
There could be security cameras.
After bumping three switches with her elbow, the giant chandelier spilled light over the marble floors. The cool gray paint on the walls spread out to meet the gleaming white trim and lent a cold feel to the space. A massive painting of Zacharias and his family, obviously commissioned a dozen or more years ago, served as the focal point. A round table of mirrored glass sat in the center of the hall, directly beneath the chandelier. The large vase stationed there was filled with cut flowers. The once lush and richly colored petals had browned and now littered the tabletop. A man of means living in a house like this one would certainly have a cleaning staff.
Had he sent them all away before he took his own leave?
Bobbie surveyed the room again. No sign of cameras. In Zacharias’s shoes she would have been far better prepared with a surveillance camera in every damned room as well as around the perimeter of the house. On the other hand, an attorney willing to interact with such depraved murderers probably harbored a serious God complex and didn’t want any electronic documentation of his movements or those of his visitors. With his most notorious monster no longer in chains behind those drab prison walls, Zacharias might not be feeling so high and mighty now.
“Mr. Zacharias? Are you home?”
Bobbie moved from the entry hall with its elegant curving staircase leading up to the second floor to the parlor on the right. She rubbed her arm against her side, pushing the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her fingers before reaching under the nearest lampshade to switch on the light. The expected sophisticated furnishings were gathered around an equally stylish stone fireplace that spanned the full height of the room—at least twelve feet. She listened again before progressing across the entry hall to the next room, a library. Floor-to-ceiling rows of bookshelves stood where the fireplace would be and distinguished the room from its near mirror image across the hall. No sign of a struggle or that anyone had combed through the space. Other than the open front door, all appeared to be in order.
One by one Bobbie advanced through room after room, calling the owner’s name and bumping a light on with her elbow in each one. Clear.
Since she’d found no sign of foul play or of the homeowner so far, Bobbie suspected Zacharias had in fact gotten the hell out of Dodge. His statement about Weller’s escape had played over and over on every available media outlet the past forty-eight or so hours.
I am shocked and saddened by this turn of events. No one will be safe until Randolph Weller is caught.
“That includes you, Zacharias.”
Bobbie imagined he was well aware of the imminent danger. Under the circumstances, she had known finding him was a long shot but she’d had to try. He hadn’t been answering his phone. No-damned-body had been answering their phones—including you, Bobbie. Her calls to Nick as well as to Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had gone unanswered. Her instincts told her LeDoux was in one way or another up to his eyeballs in this, too.
As much as she wanted to trust LeDoux after what they’d been through together, she couldn’t. The secret the two of them shared was like an open, festering wound deep below the surface where no one else could see. Like cancer, eating them up one inch at a time and at the same time making them dangerously reckless.
Like not calling backup in a situation like this one.
Exiling the warning voice honed by years of investigating homicides, she moved deeper into the house. Just off the kitchen and tucked beyond the family room, she found the attorney’s study. Bookshelves lined one wall. Framed photographs of the family that had abandoned him sat in a neat arrangement on one corner of the desk. The blotter was a clean, crisp expanse of white marred only by the fallen blooms from the floral arrangement that sat next to it, a smaller version of the one in the entry hall. To the right of the desk was a set of French doors.
Open French doors.
Shit. Bobbie’s fingers tightened on her Glock. She executed a three-sixty, scanning the room.
No movement. No sound.
For a moment she considered calling it in, but she had crossed the line coming into the house. There had been no true exigent circumstances. Knowing her chief, he’d put out a BOLO on her and the Atlanta PD would be on the lookout for her already.
Check the files in the study and get the hell out.
Zacharias could very well be on a private jet headed for some tropical island whose laws didn’t include an extradition treaty with the US.
Or Weller had taken him.
With the second set of doors left open, foul play was the more likely of the scenarios. No way two doors in this mansion had faulty locks. Even if Zacharias had been in a hell of a hurry, why leave both doors unlocked and open?
Hold on. She hadn’t been upstairs. Was someone up there stealing his Rolexes and platinum cuff links at this very moment? Zacharias could very well be dead in his bedroom. It was the middle of the night after all. Bobbie braced her back against the nearest wall to ensure no one came up behind her. Too quiet. A thief would have heard her calling out to Zacharias.
A spot on the floor near the desk snagged her attention, then another spot and another. Red wine maybe? Not so lucky.
Blood.
She visually traced the pattern of splatters, a stark crimson on the champagne-colored rug. The blood trail led around the large mahogany desk.
Adrenaline stinging her senses, she followed the path her gaze had taken, glancing over her shoulder repeatedly and taking care not to step in the blood. The amount of blood increased exponentially as she drew closer to the other side of the desk, as if the bleeder had lingered there. At this point the urge to fish out her cell and call 911 was fierce, but she ignored it.
Not yet.
Behind the desk the trail of blood became a series of small puddles. The phone that had been blocked from her view by the floral arrangement had been dragged to the edge of the desk, the handset dangling from its curly cord. Blood was smeared on the keypad; crimson fingerprints encircled the handset.
Holding her breath in an attempt to slow the pounding in her chest, she listened for the slightest noise as her eyes traced the path of blood that continued beyond the desk and out the open French doors.
“I repeat, this is nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Bobbie’s attention snapped back to the phone. What the hell?
“If you can hear me...”
She reached for the handset.
“...we’re sending—”
The dispatcher’s voice silenced mid-sentence.
Bobbie twisted and leveled her Glock on whoever had entered the room.
“What the hell are you doing, Bobbie?”
Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. His fingers still rested on the switch hook in the phone’s cradle, severing the connection.
“What the hell are you doing, LeDoux?”
Better question, how the hell had he sneaked up on her like that? Sleep deprivation is making you sloppy, Bobbie.
The agent held up his hands. “How about you put your weapon away and we’ll talk about the reason we’re both here?”
She glanced at the open doors. “We should be looking for whoever all that blood belongs to, not debating our respective motives for breaking and entering.”
“I’ve already looked around inside and out,” LeDoux said. “No one’s here. I’d be gone, too, except as I headed for the back door I heard someone come inside. I hid in the pantry you walked right past. You’re losing your edge, Detective.”
Anger and frustration seared through Bobbie. “Fuck you. Where’s Zacharias?”
“I can tell you that the illustrious task force assembled to find Weller doesn’t have him.” He shook his head, his face tightening with distaste or something on that order. “I can’t believe the son of a bitch wasn’t under surveillance.”
Bobbie glanced at the open doors again before shifting her attention back to LeDoux, only then realizing her Glock was still aimed at his chest. Deciding she wasn’t ready to surrender the upper hand, she held her bead on the FBI agent. His story was a little too pat for her comfort. He just happened to be going out of the house as she was coming in? The only time she had witnessed timing that perfect was at a Broadway play she and her husband, James, had attended when they’d gone to New York City for Christmas the year before Jamie was born.
LeDoux was lying.
So she asked him again, “If Zacharias is gone, who bled all over the carpet? The blood’s not even dry.” Though she hadn’t touched it, she had seen enough to know the dull, blackness of blood that had been spilled and then sat there for a while. Her gaze narrowed. “Who made that 911 call?”
LeDoux laughed. “I got no idea where the blood came from. As for the call, that was me. The phone was already off the hook, I just selected line one and entered the numbers. I figured it was the least I could do.”
A couple of scenarios elbowed their way into her thoughts, neither of which included his story. She restrained the urge to bombard him with the questions pounding in her brain. “You have no idea where Zacharias would go?”
“If I had a fucking clue where he or Weller might be, we wouldn’t be having this friendly conversation.” He sent a pointed look at her weapon.
Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he’d had about as much sleep as she. His jeans and sweater were rumpled as if he’d been wearing them a couple of days. He hadn’t shaved recently and those bloodshot eyes provided considerable insight into the sustenance he’d chosen for survival lately.
“Have you heard from Nick?” Jesus Christ, the blood could be Nick’s. Fear spread through Bobbie’s chest like fire through a drought-stricken forest. Nick would no doubt have come to Zacharias looking for answers.
Don’t you dare die on me, Nick Shade. Too many had died already, damn it.
“Not a word.” LeDoux hitched his head toward the open door. “We should get the hell out of here. Now.”
This didn’t feel right. Bobbie split her attention between the French doors and the agent she didn’t completely trust. “What we should do is have another look around. The bleeder can’t have gotten far without help.”
“You’d better rethink that strategy.” LeDoux nodded toward the phone. The dial tone had turned into a recorded warning: If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try your call again. “Atlanta PD will be rolling by now.”
“We’ll need to give a statement,” she countered. The bloody handprint on the handset, the red smudges on the keypad held her attention for an extra beat. What was she missing here? Her focus swung back to LeDoux. He stood a mere three feet away without a visible speck of blood on his pale gray sweater and faded jeans. No way he’d carried or dragged a bleeding victim out of this house.
“They’ll be looking for someone to blame for whatever happened here,” LeDoux countered. “We both want to find Weller. And we both want to help your friend Shade.” He gestured to the bloody mess. “The questions and the investigation will keep us on-site for hours if not days, and time is our enemy.”
Five then ten seconds elapsed while she weighed her options. He was right that the 911 operator would have already dispatched the police. Standard operating procedure for 911 hang-ups. Bottom line, LeDoux had a valid point about the other, as well. She couldn’t afford the delay.
“Fine.” She lowered her weapon. “We’ll do this your way, but if you’re lying to me, LeDoux—”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Bobbie. Not when it counts.” He held her gaze a moment, then headed for the door.
Maybe she was a fool, but she followed him.
Outside, the blood trail was lost to the darkness. “My car’s parked on the street in front of the house,” she said. “I’ll follow you. Where’re we going?”
LeDoux headed toward the street. “I’ll hitch a ride with you,” he called over his shoulder. “I took a cab.”
Bobbie watched his retreating back until he’d disappeared into the darkness beyond the landscape lighting. There were only two or three logical explanations for taking a cab anywhere. You either didn’t have personal transportation or you were too inebriated to drive. Since LeDoux didn’t fall into either of those categories at the moment there was only one plausible explanation for his actions.
He didn’t want any potential witnesses able to ID his vehicle.
LeDoux had good reason for wanting to find the monster Zacharias had represented, just as Bobbie did. She thought about the blood on the floor in the study. Whether or not LeDoux had killed Zacharias in an attempt to extract information was the real question. His erratic behavior the past week or so provided sufficient reason for her to doubt his trustworthiness...but could she really see him as a murderer?
Either way, he was right about her not having time to be waylaid by the investigation to find out or to be cleared of suspicion.
Without looking back, Bobbie turned off the instincts screaming at her and followed LeDoux.
He was the closest thing to a lead she had.
Three
Coventry Court, Norcross, Georgia
3:00 a.m.
“We’ve been friends for a very long time, Randolph. I’ve carried out your every request—even the ones I should have categorically denied. I have kept your secrets just as you requested.”
Randolph Weller set his unfinished cup of tea aside. It had grown cold anyway. “I find your pathetic pleas to be quite tedious, Lawrence.”
Lawrence Zacharias’s face paled. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything. Anything at all. There’s no need to resort to this barbaric behavior.”
Poor, poor Lawrence. The injury to his forearm had stopped bleeding hours ago, yet one would think he’d suffered a fatal stab wound. The bloody mess left in his study had been the man’s own doing. He’d hoped to send the authorities on a hunt for a killer rather than a fleeing attorney. Frankly, Randolph had expected far more from his old friend. There really was little the man could do now. He was tied to his chair. He could scarcely breathe much less move with the rope wound tightly around his arms, legs and chest. Randolph sighed. Such a waste of true brilliance.
“I fear it’s far too late for posturing and gestures now.” Randolph cocked his head and studied his old friend. “You see, after I spoke to Lucille, I decided to watch you, Lawrence. The courier you hired is in the other room. He told me about the package. Did you know it was intercepted by Special Agent LeDoux?”
When the other man only stared at him with utter defeat in his eyes, Randolph went on, “I’m certain you didn’t. When I learned the addressee, I understood exactly what you’d done. You see, Lawrence, when you decide to betray a man like me, there are certain steps you should not trust to anyone save yourself. If you had personally handled the package, you might very well have made your flight to Maracaibo.” He shook his head. “Too bad. I understand the governor himself had selected a luxury villa for you. I’m certain you would have been quite happy spending your twilight years there.”
“No one knows where you are—you still have time to disappear,” Lawrence said quickly as if he’d gained his second wind in the race against certain death. “No one knows anything.”
The former was true. Randolph should be well on his way to Morocco. Lawrence had purchased the small desert palace for him years ago. Randolph had always planned to slip away one day. He’d cultivated the perfect pawns to facilitate the move. His son’s obsession with Detective Bobbie Gentry had provided the classic opportunity. Randolph had dreamed of rich, mahogany-skinned men and delicious domestic maids catering to his every whim, including serving as inspiration for his beloved art.
But then a loose end he should have clipped long ago unraveled his well-laid plans and, unfortunately, Lawrence was wrong about the latter of his claims. Someone did know something and now Randolph had no choice but to tidy up that annoying thread before disappearing. If there was anything in this world he wanted as much as the freedom to create his art, it was revenge. It was a rather base instinct but, despite popular belief, Randolph was only human. Where Nicholas was concerned, the absolute best revenge was to ensure he remained steadfast on his current path. Nothing would make Randolph happier than knowing his son would forever remain alone and in the shadows, afraid of who and what he might become. The quintessential tragedy.
“There are two people who know my deepest, darkest secret, Lawrence.” Randolph stood. He unbuttoned the light wool suit jacket. He had to give his old friend credit—he’d had everything Randolph needed waiting for him in that Huntsville, Alabama, storage locker, including transportation. He removed the jacket and placed it carefully on the back of the chair he’d vacated.
“I made a mistake,” Lawrence urged. “I can take care of it. Now. This minute. Let me...let me help you, Randolph.” His words had begun to slur.
Ah, the timing was flawless. The high-powered muscle relaxer would render Lawrence quite helpless. Randolph crossed the room and opened the liquor cabinet. He’d stored the items he would need there, including the half-empty bottle of Scotch he’d laced. The moment was, admittedly, gratifying. Randolph had been in prison for fourteen years, three months and six days, and he still hadn’t lost his touch.
“Dear God,” Lawrence muttered thickly.
Randolph chuckled. “God can’t help you now, Lawrence.” He removed the carefully folded white sheet from the shelf below the whiskey tumblers and spread it on the floor. “You see—” he walked toward his old friend “—God holds no dominion over me.”
Randolph released the knot and unwound the rope. Lawrence slumped forward, tried to move but his body failed him. Still, he grunted and gnashed his teeth.
“Now, now, Lawrence, you know there’s nothing you can do. Why put on this pathetic display?”
Randolph reached under the drugged man’s shoulders and lifted him, then dragged him to the middle of the room. He arranged him, arms stretched out to his sides, legs spread eagle.
“It’s such a shame I won’t have time to capture this momentous occasion on canvas.” He smiled down at his old friend. “You know I’ve always fancied myself quite the artist.” He sighed. “Before Nicholas turned against me I had my own studio. I miss those days.”
A wet spot appeared on the crotch of Lawrence’s trousers.
“Really,” Randolph chastised, “I would have thought you far braver than this.”
The man on the floor groaned pitifully.
Randolph returned to the liquor cabinet and retrieved the final tool he’d stashed behind it.
He approached his old friend once more. “I will miss you, Lawrence.”
Tears poured from the other man’s eyes. The pulse at the base of his throat fluttered wildly.
How very sad and yet intensely titillating.
“See you in hell, old friend.” Randolph hefted the ax. The first blow shattered the elbow as the blade cut through bone and tendon, leaving the forearm detached and hemorrhaging on the floor. The second swing sent blood splattering across Randolph’s face. Muscles and ligaments splayed open at the shoulder like the freshly severed parts of a hog. The humerus easily popped out of the glenoid socket and Lawrence’s body twitched and shuddered. A feeble scream croaked out of his sagging jowls.
Randolph sighed with pleasure as the hot blood slid down his skin. His own blood pulsing with sheer bliss, he raised the ax again.
Thumping and grunting echoed from the other room. Randolph hesitated and glanced toward the wall that separated the two men who would die this day.
He smiled. “Don’t worry, dear boy, you’re next.”
Four
Bobbie had barely reached the end of the block when she spotted the cruiser in her rearview mirror. The Atlanta PD official vehicle rocked to a stop in the spot she’d vacated mere seconds before. Unable to help herself she’d sat a moment at the intersection and watched the two uniformed officers rush up the steps toward the house. LeDoux hadn’t said a word but she’d felt the tension vibrating from him.
Eighteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot of the Country Inn and Suites where LeDoux had a room. Definitely a step down from the luxurious four-and five-star hotels the agent typically called home when on assignment. Just another indication of how much LeDoux had changed over the past year. He didn’t wear his scars on his skin the way she did, but they were there nonetheless.
“You’ll need a jacket or something,” he said. “Unless you’re planning to leave your weapon in the trunk.”
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation or the burden of so many murders so close together but her mind felt as if her head were under water. Every thought, every reaction was far slower than it should be. Agreeing to come to this hotel with LeDoux was likely another sleep-deprived decision she would regret.
He works for the FBI, Bobbie. He used you once...
Considering she didn’t have a better plan, she popped the trunk and climbed from the driver’s seat. She glanced at LeDoux as she grabbed her overnight duffel bag from the back seat. There were a lot of people she’d let down. Her son, her husband, her partner, her friend, the chief. Special Agent LeDoux was guilty of that egregious sin the same as she was—all the more reason she shouldn’t trust him, except he had certain connections she didn’t.
She moved around to the trunk and dug out the windbreaker she kept there for emergencies. Dragging on the jacket, she reluctantly admitted to herself that whatever LeDoux had or hadn’t done, she owed him. He had protected her that once when there was no one else—when it counted. He had allowed the monster to take him instead. His screams echoed deep in her soul. Bobbie shook off the haunting memories.
“We have to go through the lobby to get to the room,” LeDoux explained as if the silence or her lack of a response had gotten to him and he needed to speak just to make sure they were both still alive.
The two of them were like the walking dead—ghosts. Mere shadows of their former selves moving among the living. The breeze she’d noticed earlier felt colder now. She zipped the jacket and secured the car. “How long have you been in Atlanta?”
She hadn’t seen LeDoux since late Tuesday night, some fifty hours ago, when they’d met at a crime scene in Athens, Alabama. Weller’s latest victim had been chopped into pieces and then displayed like a broken doll that had been reassembled by a two-year-old. Had LeDoux come straight to Atlanta after that to question Zacharias?
“About twenty-four hours.”
So what had he been doing between Tuesday night and yesterday? At some point this past week she’d gotten the distinct impression he was on thin ice with his superiors. Something else they had in common.
When he reached for the entrance door, she asked, “Are you on the Weller task force?”
He hesitated, his gaze settling on hers. “Not officially.”
Before she could ask the next question poised on the tip of her tongue, LeDoux headed through the lobby. The clerk, young and female, smiled as they passed. LeDoux gave her a nod. The clerk grinned, checked out Bobbie and then looked away. Whatever else he was, LeDoux was an attractive man with plenty of charm when he chose to use it. When he and Bobbie worked together the first time, he’d had a wife. She’d had a husband and a child. Ten months and a couple of vicious serial killers had changed everything.
Without speaking, they took the stairs to the second floor. LeDoux stopped at room 216 and swiped his keycard, then held the door open for her. Bobbie stepped inside, tossed her bag on the floor and surveyed the room. Window on the far side. Drapes pulled tight. Desk, chair. Small sofa. King bed.
